Blam!
So let’s set the scene.
Dave and some young friends tooling around in a beat up truck driver by his friend Liz. Pouring rain. Poor choice of parking spots. My son in a purple shirt that says in bright letters, “Blam!”
Dave called me around 5 pm to say, “Mom. We’re kinda stuck at this playground.”
“What do you mean by stuck?” I calmly inquired (and if you believe that…).
“Well, Liz drove us into a ditch.”
Images of mangled and bleeding teenagers flashed before my eyes, but I thought if he’s calling me no one is probably hurt. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.” The grubby clothes went on and a jacket.
I arrived at the playground truly amazed at what I saw. It wasn’t so much stuck in a ditch as she had driven one rear tire into a culvert. It dangled over the opening precariously. The only thing keeping the whole thing from going in was that the truck springs were sitting on the rather wide top edge of the cement culvert. I sighed and brought out my jack. It was a good idea except the ground was so soft the weight of the truck was sinking the jack.
I stood up now rain soaked and covered in mud, noting not one teenager was even attempting to help, and thought, “If I had a better jack, this might work.” Just then a guy pulled up in a dark minivan and asked, “Could you use a jack?” Why, yes. Yes I could. This good Samaritan was shaved bald, covered in tattoos praising both Jesus and God which seemed redundant. Clad in the latest style of cut off sweat pants and sleeveless t-shirt, he was rather impressive given his 5’6” height. He drove home with his nervous wife who was sure the cops were going to come to look for his jack. He returned within 5 minutes.
His jack, while wonderful encountered a problem as well. The frame of the truck was too wide and leaning at such an angle that the jack couldn’t safely lift the truck. What now? Of course the next logical step is to have all of us lift the truck. Needless to say that didn’t work. His wife offered suggestions like calling the cops, or even calling the cops. Tattoo dude said, “The cops ain’t going to do shit! Excuse my French.” We had to excuse a lot of French.
Next Tattoo dude thought some boards would work if we could get them under the dangling tire. Sounds good to me. This trip took longer as all he could find was a large piece of plywood suitable for boarding up a window. This was placed on the van’s luggage rack without anything to hold it down and driven to our location. Brilliant! The board was much too large. Tattoo dude sighed. “If only I had some rope I just pull her out.” He finished the sentence as an old beat up Subarban type vehicle pulled up. A man with long grey pony tailed hair leaned out his vehicle window and said, “Do y’all need some rope?” Why, yes. Yes we do.
Good Samaritan 2 was tall, lanky, and looked every bit the aging hippy but sounded more Okie than I thought possible. He also was sporting cut off sweat pants but his shirt did have sleeves. His wife similarly thin and similiarly clad, stood watching with a cigarette in one hand and a Styrofoam cup in the other to put her ashes in. Somewhere in the process the cigarette was replaced with beef jerky or some kind of animal jerky, but the cup oddly remained. Both couples weren’t wearing any shoes.
So Hippy tells Tattoo to get in the truck and turn the wheel all the way toward the left and put it in neutral while Hippy is tying the rope to some part of the stuck truck.
Hippy wife notices Dave’s purple shirt and remarks, “That’s kinda what happened didinit. Blam!” Her accent made Hippy’s look mild! It was too much. Between excusing French, heavy accents and the pouring rain, the kids began laughing hysterically. It was I could do to not laugh. “Why you kids all laughing?”
By now the truck is tied up. Hippy gets in his vehicle and floors the accelerator. The truck lurches backward rocking Tattoo around the cabin. The tires grab and the truck swings around sharply to the left, skidding wildly on the slick black top. It stopped just about a foot from broad siding the rear of the Hippy’s suburban. The stuck truck’s exhaust was wrenched loose. “Ye jest need to git yerself a coat hanger for that.” Hippy wife helpfully suggested.
Many grateful thanks were given and then Hippy looks at Tattoo dude, flashes the peace sign and actually said, “Peace.” I held my breath and thought, “He’s got to say it” and he did. Tattoo, slightly confused said, “Peace…out.” It hurt at that point not to laugh. Tattoo drove off with is plywood, still unattached to anything. Hippy floored his accelerator and sped off.
Only later did I think, “We should have next asked for winning lottery tickets. We got everything else we asked for!”
Dave and some young friends tooling around in a beat up truck driver by his friend Liz. Pouring rain. Poor choice of parking spots. My son in a purple shirt that says in bright letters, “Blam!”
Dave called me around 5 pm to say, “Mom. We’re kinda stuck at this playground.”
“What do you mean by stuck?” I calmly inquired (and if you believe that…).
“Well, Liz drove us into a ditch.”
Images of mangled and bleeding teenagers flashed before my eyes, but I thought if he’s calling me no one is probably hurt. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.” The grubby clothes went on and a jacket.
I arrived at the playground truly amazed at what I saw. It wasn’t so much stuck in a ditch as she had driven one rear tire into a culvert. It dangled over the opening precariously. The only thing keeping the whole thing from going in was that the truck springs were sitting on the rather wide top edge of the cement culvert. I sighed and brought out my jack. It was a good idea except the ground was so soft the weight of the truck was sinking the jack.
I stood up now rain soaked and covered in mud, noting not one teenager was even attempting to help, and thought, “If I had a better jack, this might work.” Just then a guy pulled up in a dark minivan and asked, “Could you use a jack?” Why, yes. Yes I could. This good Samaritan was shaved bald, covered in tattoos praising both Jesus and God which seemed redundant. Clad in the latest style of cut off sweat pants and sleeveless t-shirt, he was rather impressive given his 5’6” height. He drove home with his nervous wife who was sure the cops were going to come to look for his jack. He returned within 5 minutes.
His jack, while wonderful encountered a problem as well. The frame of the truck was too wide and leaning at such an angle that the jack couldn’t safely lift the truck. What now? Of course the next logical step is to have all of us lift the truck. Needless to say that didn’t work. His wife offered suggestions like calling the cops, or even calling the cops. Tattoo dude said, “The cops ain’t going to do shit! Excuse my French.” We had to excuse a lot of French.
Next Tattoo dude thought some boards would work if we could get them under the dangling tire. Sounds good to me. This trip took longer as all he could find was a large piece of plywood suitable for boarding up a window. This was placed on the van’s luggage rack without anything to hold it down and driven to our location. Brilliant! The board was much too large. Tattoo dude sighed. “If only I had some rope I just pull her out.” He finished the sentence as an old beat up Subarban type vehicle pulled up. A man with long grey pony tailed hair leaned out his vehicle window and said, “Do y’all need some rope?” Why, yes. Yes we do.
Good Samaritan 2 was tall, lanky, and looked every bit the aging hippy but sounded more Okie than I thought possible. He also was sporting cut off sweat pants but his shirt did have sleeves. His wife similarly thin and similiarly clad, stood watching with a cigarette in one hand and a Styrofoam cup in the other to put her ashes in. Somewhere in the process the cigarette was replaced with beef jerky or some kind of animal jerky, but the cup oddly remained. Both couples weren’t wearing any shoes.
So Hippy tells Tattoo to get in the truck and turn the wheel all the way toward the left and put it in neutral while Hippy is tying the rope to some part of the stuck truck.
Hippy wife notices Dave’s purple shirt and remarks, “That’s kinda what happened didinit. Blam!” Her accent made Hippy’s look mild! It was too much. Between excusing French, heavy accents and the pouring rain, the kids began laughing hysterically. It was I could do to not laugh. “Why you kids all laughing?”
By now the truck is tied up. Hippy gets in his vehicle and floors the accelerator. The truck lurches backward rocking Tattoo around the cabin. The tires grab and the truck swings around sharply to the left, skidding wildly on the slick black top. It stopped just about a foot from broad siding the rear of the Hippy’s suburban. The stuck truck’s exhaust was wrenched loose. “Ye jest need to git yerself a coat hanger for that.” Hippy wife helpfully suggested.
Many grateful thanks were given and then Hippy looks at Tattoo dude, flashes the peace sign and actually said, “Peace.” I held my breath and thought, “He’s got to say it” and he did. Tattoo, slightly confused said, “Peace…out.” It hurt at that point not to laugh. Tattoo drove off with is plywood, still unattached to anything. Hippy floored his accelerator and sped off.
Only later did I think, “We should have next asked for winning lottery tickets. We got everything else we asked for!”